bi [sic] le

So as part of the 63 miles involved in my cross-city tour Saturday from Silver Lake to the rocky tops of Chatsworth and back in order to be in attendance at my grandson Aiden’s first birthday party, I ventured across the San Fernando Valley via first part of the Chandler Bikeway in Burbank, and then joined the Orange Line Bikeway in North Hollywood for the rest of the journey to Woodland Hills.

The Orange Line portion is not without its issues. There are interminably long waits for lights at many of the streets the bikeway intersects with some of the worst being along the practically rural stretch between Tarzana and Woodland Hills. In addition, the crosswalk call buttons are situated in pretty much the worst possible location if you’re on a bike; far enough away from the curb apron to make a cyclist consider whether all that additional work is worth it to get to it, push it and then back in position to roll into the street. And the answer is, probably, but it’s a pain, and glaring proof that whoever designed it and approved it did so with pedestrians in mind, not cyclists.

But for all its faults it’s a huge improvement to what was. In a past life having biked from my Encino apartment to the first magazine job I had in Woodland Hills, I can remember pedaling down Oxnard and Topham trying to stay as tight to the gutter as possible so as not to incur the wrath of unforgiving motoristas, and dreaming of the day when that defunct rail spur to the immediate north might become something useful and bike-related, and now it is.

And of course my sunglasses cam recorded the whooooooole thing. The main problem was it did so in a 1-gig file that I had to shrink down to super tiny-sized in order to make it even close to remotely streamable/viewable.

So if you’ve been hankering to vicariously ride that route, got about 75 minutes of your life you’re not doing much with, and won’t be angry that you can’t get it back afterwards, then I invite you to click here to view a much much smaller version of the following frame from the video :

It was in March of 2004 that the miracle with Buster the Russian Tortoise happened — and I don’t use the term “miracle” lightly. That’s what it was: a miracle. Trust me. You can read all about it here if you’d like.

In a nutshell, while Susan and I were out and about running errands all over town the normally heights-wary and edge-aware Buster somehow fell 15-feet off of the balcony of the apartment I was living in at the time, and a whole big series of events transpired to deliver us back to the building at the exact same very moment that a neighborhood kid was walking away with Buster in his hands, who had not only survived the fall uninjured but then managed to make her way around from the back of the building to the side of the building to the street where the kid found her a few moments before we drove  up with me saying something like “Hey, that’s my tortoise!”

Seriously, give or take a few seconds earlier or later and Buster would’ve been gone and I’d literally be spending the rest of my days perplexed and dumbfounded wondering how she just vanished. It would’ve driven me crazy.

So like I said: MIRACLE.

Shortly after that I decided to rename Buster, whose moniker had been bestowed because the tortoise’s expression resembled Buster Keaton’s famous stoneface, and also because back in our first days together I was incorrect in thinking she was a he.

Her new name? Simple and entirely fitting: the Russian word for “miracle,” which I set out across the internest to find. But the only thing I learned was that it was much easier read than said. See, the trouble was back in that time, there wasn’t one single translation service I knew of that offered anglicized phonetic pronunciations of words in Russian. Seeing as that alphabet is entirely different from our own, I would type in:

miracle

and after selecting English-to-Russian, would get back:

Which is absolutely lovely, but didn’t do a whole lot of good for someone trying to find out how the word sounded.

I guess I could have called the nearest Russian consulate or language instructor, or posted an ad on Craigslist begging to be told how to speak the word, but I didn’t. Instead I gave up and Buster, who of course couldn’t have cared less what we called her, stayed Buster. Occasionally I’d get on the web and try to find the answer again, but always ran into the same dead end.

Until yesterday, when I learned that Google’s released a mobile translator app that spoke the words and phrases, only to be disappointed that it wasn’t available for the iPhone. Shaking my head I went to Google Translate and for the countless time entered “miracle” into the appropriate box. Then I selected the proper “from” and “to” languages and sure enough all I got was:

But wait a minute… what was that and where did it come from? Before my eyes was a “show romanization” text link and when I clicked it — wait for it… it was a miracle, Below the cyrillic version was how it sounded out:

So. FINALLY. After five years of occasionally wondering and ever-failing to find out how it is one pronounces my miracle tortoise’s long sought-after name, I’ve found it. It’s Chudo!

Kinda catchy!

Lacking content for an actual post, I’ll occasionally dive into the photo libraries and dredge up an image from the past, such as this captivating if otherwise unknown species of flying — presumably sting-capable — insect who was pretty protective of its sandy spot midway up Eureka Dunes in Death Valley, during the first time Susan and I visited there in November of 2005.

We’ll be in Death Valley next month, and while Eureka Dunes isn’t on the itinerary this time around, we’re looking forward to a demonstration of the park’s wildflower prowess, thanks to some above-average rainfall this winter.

Begrudgingly canceled due to cold and wet weather that dropped in uninvited during our visit last Thanksgiving, I am excited to announce that Susan and I will be returning to Death Valley in early April not only so I can finally fulfill the 9-years-old dream of biking the 28 miles of bad-ass road from Ubehebe Crater to Racetrack Playa (inspired originally back in 2001 by this brief article, clickably pictured at right, that I found in Outdoor magazine), but also to check out any hot wildflower action that might be blooming out and about in them there vast solitudinous expanses.

Special bonus: we’ll be accompanied by family in the form of my cousin Margaret’s 18-year-old son Nathan (I think that makes him my first cousin, once removed), who’ll be coming out to California to spend a short vacation with us.

On the off chance any of you camping/adventuring types reading this wanna caravan out and join us, holler at me and I’ll send you the dates and details.

When it was announced that LAPD Chief Charles Beck was to be in attendance at this week’s City Council Transportation Committee meeting Wednesday, I would have bet good money that he wouldn’t show. Nothing against Beck, it’s just that in the recent past there have been blow-offs by the department to requests by the committee for reports and presentations, so it wouldn’t surprise me if its chief suddenly found something more productive to do than placate a passel of cycling types.

Then I heard that that Carmen Trutanich’s office had declined to file charges against the suspect who struck cyclist Ed Magos on January 6 and then, after getting out and observing a seriously injured Magos on the ground pleading for help, got back in her Porsche Cayenne and left the scene. This absolution against someone so criminally culpable and morally bankrupt compounded the frustration I was already feeling when I’d heard that the suspect later turned herself in to police telling them that “I may have hit something,” only to have the police for all intents and purposes condone such reprehensible behavior by sending her on her way instead of arresting her for felony hit and run.

Come the morning of the committee meeting I was pretty much the grumbliest cyclist in the city and made the snap decision to take a personal day, telling my boss something along the lines that “an important and pressing matter needs my immediate and direct attention.”

Then at noon I pedaled over to Heliotrope and Melrose in East Hollywood to meet up with a group of cyclists organized by the L.A. County Bike Coalition who were heading to City Hall and the committee meeting via the route that Magos took the day he got hit.

One of the items on my agenda as an Angeleno has been to visit City Council chambers, but never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d ever task myself with speaking there. But despite how much I hate doing so, I knew I had to do more than represent physically. For better or worse I had to verbalize it as well.

But a funny thing happened on the way to the lectern mic with all the bombast I’d been planning to drop. Beck took the wind totally out of my sails by addressing the Magos incident specifically in his opening statement at the beginning of the meeting. He said he recognized that the ball got dropped and that people were pissed and as such had spoken with Trutanich’s office, which had agreed to take another look at the issue (whatever that means).

So whereas I had been planning on using loaded words like “abomination,” “insulting,” “ignorant,” and “wouldn’t know justice if it hit them from behind and fled the scene” to characterize what I saw as uninvolved and uncommitted police and prosecution departments, I toned it down a bit, as follows:

It’s been awhile since I had a stray animal encounter as intense and involved as this one — the last being the relatively desperate one with Acorn the Jindo by the Galen Center at USC back in July of last year. That one had a far more satisfying ending than this morning’s, but this one takes the prize for uniqueness when you consider that a fellow concerned citizen who stopped to help the poor runaway dog and introduced herself as Melanie with the Animal Services turned out to be Melanie Ramsayer, the President of the L.A. Animal Services Commission.

So without further adieu, here’s the 12 minutes of me and eventually Melanie the most awesome city commissioner (and even a parking enforcement officer at one point) doing our damnedest to corral this uncatchable critter — who we think hope and pray actually made it back home.

Notes: Just after the one-minute mark when the dog charges into busy Olympic Boulevard about a block east of La Brea, you’re going to see me just look straight up into the sky. I did that not only because I couldn’t bear to look at what I fully expected to come, but also for another reason. Though I’m not one to trouble god with things that are probably pretty trivial as far as he’s concerned, I troubled him about that dog’s life right then and hard and as directly as I could. You can argue whether my prayer was answered, but that little dog made it across unscathed.

Other notes: You’ll hear me call the dog “Charlie” throughout the chase. I did this because he seemed to react to it when I randomly called him by the name.

The Saga Of The Stray Dog And The LA Animal Services Commissioner from Will Campbell on Vimeo.

It’s been purty quiet around these here blogparts this first few days of the new year/decade. Not a lot going on but chores ‘n stuff: de-cluttering of the yards, de-decorating of the house, re-vacuuming of the floors, recycling of the Christmas tree, laundry, revisiting of the Costco, reviewing of the Rose Parade, along with a couple replacings of electrical outlets from ancient two-prong to far more contemporary three-prongers. On the entertainment tip we extended our streak of not seeing “Avatar,” while instead allowing ourselves to beoh-so-visually and morally assaulted seeing “Bruno.”

Generally these first three days were filled with stuff so ultra-compelling I thought it best to refrain from subjecting you to such awesome fascinatingness.

Was I right? Or was I right?

But now it’s time to look forward to a couple happenings I’m planning to start planning, so if’n they interest you getchur pencils sharpened and calendars out:

Long ago in the final September of the naughty aughts, I conjured up the Five Presidents bike ride, but stopped short of doing it or attaching it to a specific date. Since then it’s happened only in my mind, but two things are getting it out of my head and into reality:  1) the upcoming Presidents Day weekend in Feburary, and 2) the chance discovery last week/year/decade on my way to work of two other semi-residentially, full-presidentially named streets in Culver City (Madison and Jackson) that can be incorporated into the route, thus necessitating the ride’s renaming to the “Seven Presidents” ride.

That’s friggin’ unpresidented!

But whoa: better make that “Eight Presidents” because I just found a Van Buren Place in the vicinity of Madison and Jackson. Somebody stop me!

We now pause for a moment of clarification because I can hear some of you saying “Yo Willy, what’s the big whup pedaling along seven or eight or however many streets whose names happen to be the same as past presidents?” To that I first say, don’t EVER call me Willy. Secondly I say there is no big whup. It’s just an excuse to ride bikes with other people along a pre-determined route, connected by a certain theme that coincides with a certain day related to that theme. Was there ulterior motive to the “10 Bridges” ride? No. Existential depth to my Frank Lloyd Wride? Nah. It’s mainly just a chance for people who like to get together and ride bikes to do so. So don’t hurt yerself looking for meaning or relevance where there is just a reason to have fun and perhaps a chance to do something trivial that’s never been done before in the history of civilization as we know it.

More details to come posted here, and crossposted at LA Metblogs, Midnight Ridazz, Twitter, et cetera (but not MyBook or FaceSpace), but for now the most important thing you need to know if you’re thinking of joining me is that it will happen the morning of Saturday, February 13.

Nextly, in the wholly appropriate month of March (tentatively scheduled for Saturday the 6th, but that could change), I’ll be doing the next in my occasional series of urban walks, this one involving Jefferson Boulevard between the Shrine Auditorium and the Baldwin Hills Scenic Overlook Park.

Stay tuned for further, less sketchy details.

And in the meantime before getting my ass in gear and back into work mode, here’s my first photo of 2010, whose subject is brought to you by our potted tomato plant who worked hard these past few months nurturing this proud little fella until it dropped this weekend. Clearly the plant doesn’t know the concept of seasons or the meaning of the word quit. Ladies and gems I bring you:

Wintermater

On Christmas Day, heading back across the darkening Yosemite Valley to the Awahnee to get ready for the Bracebridge Dinner later that evening, through the mist I spied a pair of coyotes looking for supper about 400-yards out and on the move across a snow-covered meadow:

Let me strive to  forget my disappointments with the trivialities of man — poorly appointed hotel rooms and pompously pretentious dinners — and instead remember and revel in these privileged and priceless moments witnessing the magnificence of nature.

Happy New Year!

So here’s how things went down. After breakfast Christmas Eve morning in the amazing Awahnee dining room followed by a visit to the Yosemite Village store to pick up some hairspray for mom (which she’d forgot to pack), it was decided she would hang out at the hotel while Susan and I did some sightseeing.

So off we went and checked out Yosemite Falls, returning from which we found mom in the lobby of the Awahnee, whereupon she regaled us with her close encounter with the predatory king of the area’s food chain.

After getting back to her room with the hairspray she also discovered that she had somehow managed to forget all her makeup, and so donning her mink coat and foregoing the shuttle service, she set out from the hotel for the approximate 10 minute walk to the store.

But instead of striding along the paved pedestrian path on the hotel-side of the road, she opted for the more natural route that wound through the trees and big boulders between the north side of the road and the granite walls of the canyon.

There she is strolling serenely along still within the boundaries of the hotel’s grounds trying to figure out how she could have been such a doof and left her makeup at home, when she heard a voice from across the road, calling urgently and firmly to her: “Ma’am!”

My mom turned and found a uniformed person leading a small group of people on some sort of tour (probably of the hotel).

“Yes?” she answered.

“I need you to listen to me carefully and do exactly as I say.”

“Okay…”

” I want you to walk directly to me. Do it slowly. Now. Don’t turn around. Don’t run. Just walk. To me.”

Despite my mother’s tendency neither to listen very carefully nor to do exactly as she’s told. She followed orders and in a few moments she was across the road and standing before the uniformed person who asked her if she’d like to see why he asked her to do what she did.

“Of course,” she said.

Grabbing her by her fur-clad shoulders he rotated her around until she was looking back where she had been. Perched on the tall boulder she had been passing on her left was a mountain lion.

“Not a very big one,” she told us.

But big enough for her jaw to drop open as she watched it looking from her where she was standing to down directly below it where she had stopped, the lion’s long tail whipping back and forth a few times before it leapt behind the rock and out of sight.

“It was stalking you,” the man told her. “Best to stay on this side of the road.”

Again, she did as she was told. And it wasn’t until later that she realized the impact of the encounter and what might have happened had that tour guide not been there to get her safely away from it. It haunted the rest of her stay.

Postscript: The closest we came to a mountain lion were these tracks we found while tromping off-trail on Christmas Day near the base of El Capitan:

We’re back and blown away. Yosemite these past three days was just soul-charging, and truly so unique an environment was a wondrous one within which to spend Christmas.

Oddly enough I did not come back from my first-ever visit to that miraculous place with 1,256 pictures as I would usually from an excursion of such length to someplace so new and picture-perfect. Instead I return with a comparative fraction, having just triggered my shutter little more than 400 times. Below is one of them, of the boughs and branches of a snow-laden tree beside the Pohono Bridge over the Merced River on the valley floor.